


Welcome Home Sherlock

by Inactive Account (sassybleu)



Series: An Ugly Welcome Home [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Post Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-09
Updated: 2014-06-12
Packaged: 2018-02-04 01:37:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 1,831
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1762013
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sassybleu/pseuds/Inactive%20Account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>From 221B came the soft, melodic sounds of a violin, each note bringing a new tone of sadness and despair to the compilation, until the last note, poured the musician's heart out on a single string. She had dropped her bags and was walking up the stairs, hoping she was dreaming, and praying that she wasn’t.</p><p>He shouldn’t have been surprised really. How many times had Sherlock done the impossible, right in front of his eyes? </p><p>Walking into his flat, he set down his keys on the entry table and took off his coat. He put on the kettle before walking into his living room, stopping dead in his tracks at the archway.</p><p>Formerly known as 'In the New Beginning'</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Mrs. Hudson

**Author's Note:**

> This was made possible by the long brainstorming with learninghowtobreathe and liebling who encouraged me to keep the series going; thank you!

     Mrs. Hudson was a lonely old woman. Sure, she played bingo and visited her sisters often enough but she was never quite a content as when she was looking after someone. Sherlock was like the son she never had. He acted like a child well enough for her to consider herself his second mother. And he loved her dearly, even if he never said so. Sherlock made Mrs. Hudson feel youthful again; he gave her a second wind of life. When she heard that he had committed suicide it broke the poor woman’s heart. Thoughts swirled in her head, _could I have done something? Oh my poor Sherlock._

     What was worse, was that she not only lost Sherlock, but she had lost John too. The only person she’d ever known who could stand the man, was left just as alone as she was. He moved out soon after the incident. He couldn’t bear to be surrounded by Sherlock’s things. Mrs. Hudson couldn’t blame him of course. She was just as heartbroken. Sherlock had saved her from her previous monster of a husband. He loved her in a way he didn’t know how to express, and though he didn’t, she always knew.

     She didn’t go out as much anymore. The world seemed like a much more evil place without Sherlock to catch the monsters in the dark. She still visited friends and played bingo, but she never had as much fun as she used to. She still shopped on Wednesday’s; went to the same store with the same list. The same routine, every day for 3 years. Sherlock and John had both been long gone, but the silence as she entered her flat still scared her. She half expected Sherlock’s violin to start playing, or shots to be thrown in the wall in the form of a smiley face.

     It came as a bitter surprise when one Wednesday, she came home to just that. From 221B came the soft, melodic sounds of a violin, each note bringing a new tone of sadness and despair to the compilation, until the last note, poured the musician's heart out on a single string. She had dropped her bags and was walking up the stairs, hoping she was dreaming, and praying that she wasn’t. She opened the door to see a tall figure facing the window; shoes held together by tape and laces, worn and patched jeans, a thin-filthy white tshirt, dark-curly hair that was almost shoulder length, caked in mud and blood.

     Tears pricked the back of her eyes, and pooled on her lower lids, threatening to spill over. The figure turned to look at her and what she saw next made her gasp. The handsome man she called a son was heavily bruised purple in the face. Lip split open, eyes black and blue, cheek a nasty red. But what shocked her most were the eyes. The grey-blue eyes looking back at her had threats against their owner as well. Those eyes poured pain into the atmosphere around them. Those eyes said what his words could not.

     It wasn’t enough. For all the pain she saw there, all she could think was _How could he do this to me? He was like a son to me; this could have killed me!_ And with that, she set off. She went into the bathroom and turned on the shower, hanging a towel on the rack for him. Leaving the bathroom, she motioned for him to shower and set down to her own flat, collecting her groceries on the way. Putting together a tray of biscuits, sandwiches’, and cake, she went back upstairs. She set them on the coffee table, and started making tea; the way she knows he likes it. She set the cooling mug down on the coffee table, just as Sherlock stepped from his room. He was dressed in his usual attire, but it was baggy on his even-smaller than normal frame. His face looked better, and less likely to get infected. His hair was shabby but at least it was now clean. His eyes still apologizing, she walked back to her own flat. Stopping to pick up her purse, she went out and caught a cab.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 4/13/15: Please do not duplicate or post this content elsewhere without consent.


	2. Lestrade

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Three years later, Lestrade was tired. It seemed to be a characteristic more so than it did a state of mind by now. Walking back to his car after another long day of work, he shouldn't have been surprised really. How many times had Sherlock done the impossible, right in front of his eyes?

He was tired. It had been another long day at Scotland Yard when got the call. Someone managed to jump off St. Bart’s. _Lovely_ he thought, _just what I need on a long day-more paperwork!_  Though reluctantly, he got into his patrol car and headed to the crime scene, anxious to get home for the night off. When he got there however, he saw an unfamiliar site. Sitting on the pavement, looking pale and out of it, sat John Watson. Curious, Lestrade strolled over to chat before heading inside.

Lestrade saw the crimson red just beyond John, and wondered why he’d sit so close to the puddle. When he reached John, the man simply looked up at him, his face scrunched in pain, making the man look 10 years past his actual age. Lestrade realized; understanding crashing into him like a tidal wave. His face paled and his eyes sunk; he worked to keep his face expressionless, and he pulled the sitting man upright and into a tight hug.

 ~~~~~

Three years later, Lestrade was tired. It seemed to be a characteristic more so than it did a state of mind by now. Walking back to his car after another long day of work, he heard noises in the car port. He stopped to light a cigarette and saw the man step from the shadows. He shouldn’t have been surprised really. How many times had Sherlock done the impossible, right in front of his eyes? And yet he was, but he didn’t show his thoughts. Instead, he nodded respectfully and continued walking to his car. He felt bad; he really did, but he was finally at his own again. He was a good detective; and though he wasn’t as fast or as clever as Sherlock, he was smart, he did become DI on his own after all. He didn’t want to lose that. Lestrade finally learned his value again and he couldn’t let his self be uprooted by the genius once more.

So Lestrade went home, but he couldn’t help feeling guilty. He wanted answers of course, but he wasn’t willing to risk it to find out. If he talked to Sherlock, he knew he’d be manipulated to Sherlock’s will. He knew he wouldn’t get much of an answer if Sherlock wasn’t feeling particularly charitable; so he knew he couldn’t take the chance. He felt bad for John, he knew how much Sherlock’s death had hit him, and he didn’t even know if Sherlock had told John yet. _Does he realize?_ He thought, _Does he know how well he ruined John? Does he know he killed him too?_ _Does he even know how John is doing?_ Lestrade’s thoughts circled round and round his head, and he grabbed another beer to slow them down. He had the weekend off and he couldn’t seem to care whether or not he’d have a hangover tomorrow. Polishing off his fourth beer, he laid down on the couch to some all-night sales program, falling asleep within the hour.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading!
> 
> 4/13/15: Please do not duplicate or post this content elsewhere without consent.


	3. John

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He couldn't breathe, his chest constricted and his mind went painfully blank. Later on he’d realize that Sherlock tried to tell him, “It’s a trick, John. It’s just a trick.” But his mind didn't work that out until it was too late.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanted to thank learningtobreathe and liebling again for being such wonderful friends that helped me brainstorm for this series, thank you!

John woke up thinking the day would be like any other. He was a bit tired as he pulled on a jumper, but other than that he was fine. The day started like any other; tea, toast with jam, handing Sherlock the pencil four centimeters from his hand. _Just another day._

_~~~~~~_

Stepping out of the cab, he almost dropped his phone, which would have effectively ended his call with Sherlock. Walking toward the building he looked up, and saw a sight that would haunt him for years. Too far to see clearly, but close enough to know that the man on the edge of the rooftop was his flatmate, his best friend, _his partner_.  He couldn’t breathe, his chest constricted and his mind went painfully blank. Later on he’d realize that Sherlock tried to tell him, “It’s a trick, John. It’s just a trick.” But his mind didn’t work that out until it was too late.

~~~~~~ 

“This phone call-it’s, er…it’s my note. It’s what people do, don’t they-leave a note?” The words would forever be echoed in his brain; sleepless nights, slow days, anytime his mind wasn’t engaged, they ran through his mind, stomping on his sanity and threatening to overrule him. If his mind had been working he would’ve tried harder to talk him out of it; tears streaming from his eyes and his voice cracking with emotion.

“Sherlock!” screamed from his lips as he fell. As the body that was his best friend fell at the rate of gravity he could practically hear Sherlock in his ear _“9.8m/s/s John, really you should know this.”_ His mind came to the conclusion before he did. The body hit the ground with a sickening crack and his mind realized before he did. _He’s dead. Oh my god, Sherlock’s dead._

 ~~~~~ 

Another long day at work and he was off for the weekend. He was eager to go home and lie down, maybe drink a beer before bed. Walking into his flat, he set down his keys on the entry table and took off his coat. He put on the kettle before walking into his living room, stopping dead in his tracks at the archway. Sitting on his couch was a man. A tall, pale, bruised man. He looked normal save for his long hair, bruised face, and even smaller than normal frame. Anger and despair broke through him. He started yelling without knowing what he was saying, aiming to hurt; “You bastard! How could you? How could you do this to me? What about Mrs. Hudson! What about Lestrade! You killed me, Sherlock, you absolutely killed me; and now you show up here alive and well! What am I supposed to do? How could you?” He repeated over and over again, unable to stop the tears that flowed freely from his eyes.

Sherlock sat there and took it all; he had expected the hate, given the reactions he got from everyone else. When Sherlock tried to speak, to explain himself, John’s anger renewed. The man who had cared for him, the only man who had ever understood him, even as limitedly as that had been, was now spewing insults at him; calling him names that were the very exact opposites of what he used to call him. “Psychopath, crazy, dangerous, _freak…_ ” All stung like a knife stabbed into his chest, but _freak,_ that one stuck. Whenever he had been alone he was always ‘the freak’. That’s what Anderson and Donovan had called him. He never thought John would.

John turned back to his kitchen when he heard the kettle boil. As he poured the water into a mug, he heard the click of his front door being shut. He didn't even turn around.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I might eventually come back around to this and do the encounters from Sherlock's POV, let me know if you'd want to see that, or leave it off. 
> 
> *Sequel to 'In the End' will be up with this one.
> 
> 4/13/15: Please do not duplicate or post this content elsewhere without consent.


End file.
